


a behavioral analysis

by kiaronna



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Snake Crowley (Good Omens), the opposite of serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 18:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: In the wake of the not-apocalypse, Aziraphale notices some interesting behavior. As per usual, he consults a veterinarian.“When I enter a room, Crowley’s head… nods?” Nodding is the wrong word. “A few times. And Crowley’s constantly yawning! Constantly. He sleeps so much, but he must be exhausted,” Aziraphale frets. “I simply don’t know how to make him rest. So he’s clearly not sleeping, and then—this is why I came in—he’s not eating! He just... stares.”The veterinarian looks grim. “I have a theory. I’ve read about this on the web.”Aziraphale hates the internet, because it was invented too recently and when the Them tried to teach him how to use it, everything moved too quickly. But he knows this: everything on the internet is probably true.(The veterinarian is perhaps not the most qualified.)





	a behavioral analysis

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello this is entirely based off a real facebook post and ridiculous internet article. I found it while trying to google snake behavior for Crowley

After the apocalpyse-that-wasn’t, it’s much harder keeping certain appointments a secret from Crowley. Aziraphale doesn’t _like _keeping secrets from the man he loves, it’s just that-- well, it’s embarrassing.

Privacy could be easier. If Crowley was… farther. If Crowley would sleep at his own house. If Crowley would sleep in his own bed rather than folded up on the couch with his head on Aziraphale’s thigh as he read through the nights-- _you’re warm, angel, and you keep your flat bloody freezing..._

No, giving those things up isn’t an option. But neither is missing his appointment. So he waves goodbye to Crowley, who is visibly working through inner turmoil about being rejected for a spot of lunch, and heads to the nearby park. _I’m sorry, dear._

He spots his target, plucks her out of some sun-soaked weeds. She wriggles, but she’s been his go-to snake for several years now and knows she’ll get a snack out of the bargain.

“It’s for your own good health,” Aziraphale tells her, and then they’re off to the veterinarian.

The teenage receptionist smiles at him when he comes in, because she thinks snakes are impossibly cool, and her terrified family won’t let one in the house.

“How is Crowley?” The girl asks.

“Pouting,” Aziraphale answers honestly, and then remembers he is meant to be talking about the snake. “She’s lovely as always, though.”

“Uh,” says the receptionist, making so many of those bothersome _clicking_ sounds. “Um. I’m sorry, sir, but the vet was called into an emergency, so they can’t see Crowley today.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale doesn’t know if he can bear to say no to lunch again. After the first polite refusal, Crowley had immediately and viciously escalated to the Ritz. Crowley fights dirty. “Isn’t there anyone who can take a look at her?”

* * *

As it turns out, there is a very young and nervous Benjamin Park, who clearly did not specialize in reptiles.

“This isn’t an official consultation, you understand,” he says.

“That’s perfectly fine,” Aziraphale agrees pleasantly. After all, this isn’t officially a snake. Well, the one curled around his arm _is_, but she’s not the one he’s here for.

“What seems to be the problem?”

Aziraphale sighs, and strokes at her scales forlornly.

“Well,” he begins, “recently I moved Crowley’s… enclosure. And due to a professional matter, I’ve found I have more time to spend at home with Crowley.” Hours and hours. In the shop, the flat, even winding around their own block in a slow, directionless sprawl. “So I’ve noticed… odd behaviors. It’d be lovely to understand what I should do to keep my dear happy and healthy.”

“Okay,” says Benjamin, who does not sound particularly confident. “Such as?”

“When I enter a room, Crowley’s head… nods?” Nodding is the wrong word. “A few times. And Crowley’s constantly yawning! Constantly. She sleeps so much, but she must be exhausted,” Aziraphale frets. “I simply don’t know how to make her rest. So she’s clearly not sleeping, and then—this is why I came in—she’s not eating!”

“How long has it been since Crowley’s eaten?”

Aziraphale has to consider. While they go out for something scrumptious nearly every day, Crowley just sits there and—and _stares_. As though he’s ravenously hungry, but somehow uninterested in the food on his own plate.

“Weeks,” he admits. Since the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, at the very least. “At least since she’s had a proper meal. She might have had a bite or two. Oh, but every time dinner rolls around she just sits there, licking her lips, her teeth, _staring_ at me and eating absolutely nothing.”

“Licking?” Benjamin blinks. “Oh, you mean tongue flicking. I think?”

Aziraphale knows wording isn’t the point. “Clearly she’s famished! She won’t eat, won’t sleep, I’m terribly worried. Oh, what should I _do_?”

Benjamin continues to look extremely concerned, and it has Aziraphale wringing his hands. Crowley can’t die of starvation and clearly has no need for sleep, but as Crowley himself had taught Aziraphale, it’s not about _need_.

They’re finally free, and Crowley’s not enjoying himself. He stopped time and faced off against the Devil to be able to savor this life, and now… now…

“Sir,” Benjamin says. “I need to know. Has Crowley been sleeping near you? Snuggling very close? Stretching out?”

“How do you _know_ about that,” Aziraphale panics, scandalized. It’s not as though they do it on the park benches during their walks; it’s only in the sweet quiet of night, or right after Crowley’s been sleeping, or _while_ Crowley is sleeping. He’s so flustered he almost doesn’t hear the next words.

The veterinarian looks grim. “I have a theory. I’ve read about this on the web.”

Aziraphale hates the internet, because it was invented too recently and when the Them tried to teach him how to use it, everything moved too quickly. He only likes Youtube videos and the me-mes that Crowley keeps showing him. But he knows this: everything on the internet is probably true.

“Is Crowley sick?” Aziraphale covers his face with his hands. On his arm, little Crowley tightens ever so slightly. “Is it so horrible of a sign? Did I do something? What’s _wrong_ with him?”

“Your snake isn’t sick.”

_Thank you thank you thank--_

“Sir,” the veterinarian says grimly, “your snake is preparing to eat you.”

* * *

According to the wisdom of Facebook—which is _not_ a book, Aziraphale is disappointed to be reminded of—Crowley isn’t eating because he needs _room_. To _digest_.

Crowley is snuggling every evening, stretching out in his leather and jeans or occasionally his scales on the couch atop Aziraphale, because he needs to _size Aziraphale up_.

Aziraphale’s known him for six thousand years. He fears more for Crowley’s livelihood than for Crowley hurting him or disrupting heaven’s plans.

But Crowley looks _ravenous_. Even with his tinted glasses, Aziraphale can catch the panning gaze, rolling down Aziraphale’s suit and back up again. _Lingering_.

It’s never been like that before.

The last time angels rebelled against heaven, they Fell. Aziraphale had willingly embraced the possibility that he might Fall, but he’s never before considered that there could be a transformation that occurred after rebelling against _Hell_.

What if—what if Crowley becomes a _snake?_ He’s certainly been spending more time donning his scales. He suns in the shop window while Aziraphale sorts books—which graciously keeps the customers away—he winds among the modest little garden he started out back. He hangs from the hooks meant for the pans and pots whenever Aziraphale takes them down and cooks, which Aziraphale had always assumed was for the heat of the stove.

Now he wonders.

But it’s _Crowley_. He loves Crowley. No one is better than Crowley. Or, truthfully, there are people patently better than Crowley. There are people patently better than Aziraphale, too. But Crowley and Aziraphale are the best for each other—indisputably. Ineffably.

“Dear,” he says that very evening, “we should talk.”

* * *

“Not at all,” is Crowley’s reply, unimpressed, to Aziraphale’s thoughtfully worded: _have you felt differently, since the Apocalypse ordeal?_ “Not at all, besides, obviously, that I no longer have to fear for us, and a smidgen more freedom. But I don’t think that’s what you’re asking for, angel, is it.”

“No.” Aziraphale wets his lips. “It’s the way you look at me. And how you’ve been… at night. Snuggling. Stretching. Yawning, all the yawning—and the _staring_, Crowley. You won’t stop staring.”

Crowley doesn’t respond to that for a long while. He’s flicking his tongue again, which Aziraphale now understands means he’s probably tasting the air—and evidently what he finds stresses him.

“If you don’t like it, angel, you only have to ssssay the word. I am going… sssslow. I can,” the next words almost refuse to come out, “I can sssstop.”

It’s worse than Aziraphale thought. Crowley’s speech patterns used to only be affected in times where he was completely thrown off, and now, in the relative peace of Aziraphale’s flat, he’s slipped three times.

He’ll have to be gentle. This will be a frightening time, but they’ll get through it together. He wonders how long he has, before he begins the Fall—if both he and Crowley will begin a slow descent into a new state.

“Crowley,” he says, taking his hand. “Dear. I can’t ask you to stop what you can’t control. Surely you know that I’ll love you no matter what. That I’ll—I’ll do whatever you need. We just have to be careful. I don’t want either of us discorporated.”

Crowley is staring at their entwined hands. He is a frighteningly dark pink.

“To be honest,” Aziraphale says conspiratorially, squeezing his fingers, “before I realized what it was leading to, I enjoyed the cuddling. Maybe during safer times when you’re not quite so worked up and ready to eat me, we can snuggle more.” Much more.

“Angel,” the nickname sounds choked, “angel, do you think sex is going to _discorporate_ us? Bodyswapping is far more dangerous. You did that in a heartbeat.”

Aziraphale feels like he’s been reading a particularly interesting murder mystery title, only to turn the page and find himself in the middle of a harlequin romance.

“Sex?” He repeats, completely baffled. “No?”

“If you were asexual,” Crowley is murmuring, half to himself, “it’d be another matter completely, and of course we wouldn’t, but,” he half cackles, half sighs, “I would never anticipate this to be the reason.”

“It’s _not_ the reason,” Aziraphale says indignantly, then realizes: “you want us to be—_intimate_?”

“If you do,” is Crowley’s defensive reply. He puts two hands up, nonthreatening.

“But,” Aziraphale sputters. “But! I wouldn’t go to Alpha Centauri with you. I wouldn’t give you holy water. I’ve said—I’ve said things to you that one shouldn’t say to their best friend _or_ their lover. You--!”

“Angel,” even beneath the glasses, the eye rolling is completely obvious, “I’m in love with you. You know this.1”

1Aziraphale did not know this.

“I—“

“Squabbling over details isn’t necessary. We go as fast as you want, whenever you want, wherever you want. You panic and say jump and I say ‘from how high’—“

“_You’re turning into a snake_,” Aziraphale releases in a muffled shriek.

Crowley is staring again, but now it’s not with hunger.

“This is a new kind of panic.”

* * *

An hour and a laughing fit from Crowley later, all Aziraphale can manage is,

“Dear, I’m so sorry. I just-- I didn't understand?”

Even though it is absolutely not his fault, Crowley rubs at his jaw and rolls his neck. “I do all of these things so I can _see_." He tosses a hand, casually accusing. "I don't assume your reading glasses are a sign you're going to _eat me_, angel."

"Is your eyesight so poor? You never said, we can get you dark-lens glasses."

Crowley sneers, which means he's embarrassed. Aziraphale can't fathom why. "Some senses are better than eyesight. There are things I like--" his jaw is exceedingly tight "--I can only pick up on with smell. I don't ask you to only _look_ at your food when we go out to eat."

"But that's what _you_ do," Aziraphale sniffs, and then, brightening, "I do try to pick cologne for you." Crowley looks somehow more put upon. "I'm sorry." A hand on Crowley's leather jacket, patting. "It's what the veterinarian said. I shouldn't have entertained it for a moment, but I was desperate."

"A veterinarian,” Crowley snorts, “really.”

“Who do you want me to talk to about you not eating for _weeks_? God? Satan? I was so _worried_, Crowley.”

“Talk to _m__e_,” Crowley snorts, nearly derisive, but it’s ruined by the fact that he is beaming. Even Crowley seems blissfully unaware of this fact, and he's pleased enough to explain himself. “Eating when I’m out with you is a distraction.”

“Well,” Aziraphale huffs, half offended, gently waggling a finger. “I apologize for distracting you, sir, but half the joy of a meal out is the dinner conversation.”

“Conversation wasn’t what I meant.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale flusters. “_Oh_.”

“Haven’t I eaten the dinners you’ve made for us at home?”

“I had to force feed you,” Aziraphale protests.

“Spoon-feed me,” Crowley corrects, plainly.

“_Spoon_—ah. Ah.” He thinks of quiet, intimate evenings at the dinner table, candlelight flickering over a wine bottle. “You liked that. This is why you’re a wily serpent.”

“You started it, angel. I can hardly be blamed.”

The demon is so blasé and confident, it’s almost frustrating. But Aziraphale’s known him for six thousand years, knows him well enough to understand that the drumming of his fingers on the table, the tight hold to his normally slack shoulders, tells another story.

Aziraphale’s been foolish. He didn’t need to go to some—some _veterinarian _to learn things about Crowley. Crowley’s always been here, the unknowing teacher. Aziraphale longs to be a better pupil.

“I’m not here to blame you, dear.”

Crowley pulls at his—ribbon. His tie. Even Aziraphale isn’t sure where Crowley’s fashion sense comes from. Oh, how he wants to find out.

“You thought I wanted to _eat_ you.”

Aziraphale blushes. “In a sense,” he ventures, “don’t you?”

Crowley is deathly silent.

“I’m a creature of appetites, dear. It’s not as though I disagree. I just thought—well. I thought you’d decided I was too bothersome to love that way. I love you back, but I was too slow. I see now that I—miscalculated.”

Crowley lets out a soft hiss. “I’m not those bastards in heaven, Aziraphale.”

One mistake doesn’t label you a _feckless,_ a _failure_, a _fallen_. It’s just there for you to grow.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Aziraphale says. “And then, we can tell each other everything.”

* * *

The Them discover Crowley can change into a snake during their first visit back to Tadfield, and it’s the best kind of fun.

“Just for once,” Aziraphale admits, as Crowley pretends to constrict around him, nudging his shoulder gently, “I’d like to pretend to be the evil creature. Do you think they know I can use a sword? The Them love swordfighting.” Aziraphale would love a chance to wield such a thing without having to _actually_ use it.

_Certainly would go over better than your magic tricks_, Crowley replies, without words.

“Away, foul beast!” Says Adam, pointing regally with a stick. “Leave that poor temple priest alone!”

Aziraphale lights up with the chance to act. “Oh, save me, great warriors.”

Snakes can’t roll their eyes, but Crowley manages to anyway. With a showy display of fancy footwork, the Them manage to defeat him.

“Thank you for freeing me,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, but what’s _this?_” From behind him, he pulls out a rubber ball that Adam had bequeathed with the title of ‘the orb of destruction.’

“He’s evil!” Pepper shrieks, “the temple priest tricked us!”

“Ahahahaha!” Aziraphale cackles ineffectively.

“This is why you don’t judge based on appearances,” Wensleydale says solemnly.

“Give me just a moment, and I’ll proceed to taking over the world,” Aziraphale assures Adam, who sighs, because Aziraphale is never good at staying in character for long. Below him, in the grass, Crowley is still pretending to be defeated. These are the only rules he likes to follow. Crowley’s enjoying himself, and that’s all that matters. “Dear, come on, up with you, I need an evil cloak.”

They’re accustomed enough to it that Crowley can climb up Aziraphale easily, slings over his shoulders. Aziraphale kisses him atop the head. Then, he holds up the orb of destruction. At Adam’s lead, the Them begin to writhe and cough in throes upon the ground.

“So powerful!”

“Completely unhealthy!”

“Adam, what do we do?!”

While they deliberate amongst themselves, Aziraphale whispers, “all this evildoing is invigorating. We should walk through the sunshine into the main for a bit of lunch, later, don’t you think?”

Crowley curls in tighter. That’s a yes, because—because it’s always a yes. He pushes the cool sleekness of his scales into Aziraphale’s pulse point, and it wouldn’t mean anything to your common garden snake, or a cobra, or a rattlesnake. This is all Crowley’s, all Aziraphale’s, and it means one simple thing.

_I love you.2_

2This time, Aziraphale already knows.

**Author's Note:**

> ur pet snake probably does not have a strong desire to eat u  
but a lot of these behaviors are actual snek things! snakes will head wiggle, tongue flick, and also 'yawning.' While a lot of these were initially assumed to be aggressive/food behavior, a lot of them are moreso 'I am experiencing my environment' behavior. When Aziraphale's around YOU BET CROWLEY WANTS TO EXPERIENCE IT  
"NO, I KNOW WHAT U SMELL LIKE," Crowley half screams in the car.  
thanks for experiencing the mess of my brain, have a good day


End file.
